I am a freelance writer living in Maine, and I am the owner and author of the In Pursuit of Maine blog. I specialize in creative writing but also write historical articles as well as how to, gardening, cooking, practical articles, etc. My passion is outdoor living, farming, and gardening, but I write in many genres.

Monday, January 15, 2018

A terrible ice and windstorm had torn through a small
country community, leaving devastation in its wake.Old roofs were damaged, old barns were
devastated, and thick pockets of ice on the roads made travel very dangerous.In this setting a young boy of about 13 years
sat in the meeting house listening to the older people in the community as they
discussed the damage and how long it would take to clear things up and make
repairs when the warmer weather finally came again.

He was bored, so very, very bored as he sat listening to
them.Now and then his mother would give
him a sharp jab when he yawned loudly or started aimlessly stomping his
feet.“Don’t be so rude!” she would
whisper.“We have a serious situation
going on here!Travel is dangerous, and
that means supplies might be very late getting here.This is important!”To which he would slowly nod and then roll
his eyes when she turned her head.

The underside of the old tree.

Who cares about the
stupid rooves? he thought.Who cares about the barns and the stupid
animals?Who cares about the dangerous
roads or the ice or the supplies or the medicine that can’t get here?Who cares??This is so stupid!I wish I were
anywhere but here, listening to these stupid people.But he did his best to at least look as if he
were interested after each jab from his mother.And oh, how he tried to stifle his yawns.

His ears perked up a bit when he heard a bent and crooked
old man mention the number of large trees that had fallen in the woods from the
tremendous wind.His father had always
talked about how strong and brave and regal the old trees of the woods were and
how the woods provided for much of their needs.He never believed that, but it occurred to him now that he would get a
chance to see a strong and brave and regal thing lying flat on the ground, its
underside exposed.Yes, he snickered to himself, I
would like to see that!

And as if he knew what the boy was thinking, the bent and
crooked old man pointed a crooked old finger at the boy and suggested that
maybe he could go out and count the number of trees down in the woods near the
path that led to the next village.This way
they would know how much work to expect and where the worst areas were.Maybe they could at least get the path
clear.Well, the boy was only too happy
to oblige as it meant getting away from all these stupid people and his jabbing
mother who kept telling him not to be rude.

He eagerly volunteered, avoiding his mother’s eyes as she
looked at him sharply.She wasn’t
fooled.As he put on his sweater and
coat and extra pants and good boots and thick gloves, the bent and crooked old
man watched him keenly.“Be quick boy as
it’s already late, and mind your counting.We need a total from you, and we need to know where the worst damage is,”
he said.The boy just nodded absentmindedly,
avoiding the old man’s eyes.He did not
like the old man’s eyes.

Then he was free!He
was finally out of the meeting house, away from the mumbling of the stupid old
people, and free from the constant boredom.He stepped out into the freezing, late afternoon air.As he walked toward the path by the woods, it
didn’t take long for him to start complaining about the cold and feeling sorry
for himself.But then he thought of the
venerable old trees lying flat and powerless on the ground, and this gave him a
secret joy.

He was so busy in his thoughts, that he almost tripped
when he realized he was actually upon a fallen soldier of the woods.There the great tree lay on the cold ground,
its underside exposed, helpless and weak.The boy was delighted.He laughed
out loud and said, “King of the Woods, huh?Not so big and brave now!”He
smirked at the old tree.

“Come closer,” said the old tree, “and have a good
look.You’re too far away.”The voice was deep and raspy and dry.The boy jumped back quickly but then
remembered himself.He did not want to
appear frightened in front of the old tree.After all, he was the one standing tall, not the tree.

“You’re missing the best part,” the raspy old tree said.“Come closer.”And so he did.He walked closer to the tree.

“Have a good, long look,” said the dusty old voice.

“I will,” said the boy rudely.“Not so high up in the clouds now, are you?”

“Not at all,” admitted the old tree.“Not at all.Have you seen the secret part of me?”

“What secret part?”

“The part that no one ever gets to see because it stays
hidden.”

“Well, which part is it?” the boy demanded.“I haven’t got all day!”

“Have a look in the back at the underside of me, the part
I keep hidden in the dark ground.”

The boy headed toward the large bulbous part of the tree
that had been exposed when it was ripped from the Earth and thrown to the
ground.He walked quicker than he wanted
to, but he was determined to appear brave.He would not let the tree know that he felt very frightened,
indeed.That raspy, scraping, desolate
old voice rattled his nerves deeply.

And then he was at the underside.He had always wondered what the underside,
the dark side, of the trees looked like.It was filled with large roots that had broken and small roots that had
woven a thick and deep web.It was dark
and smelled strange.There were frozen
little dead things hanging off it, grubs and bugs that weren’t going to survive
this winter after all.The underside was
dark.It was black and torn and cold,
and all around it a biting cold and thin mist swirled.

“Have you had a good look?” the scraping old voice asked.

“I have,” said the boy arrogantly, “and it’s ugly.”

“Oh, yes, yes it is, indeed!” said the old tree
matter-of-factly.“The hidden part is
always ugly.The dark part never gets to
see the beauty of the sun, and it festers in its dank loneliness.Do you like it?”

This was not what the boy had expected to hear.He expected the old tree to be embarrassed or
ashamed or afraid.He expected it to
cower.He expected it to be hurt.But he did not expect it to be inviting.

“I said, do you like it??” the raw old tree asked.

“It’s even uglier than I thought,” said the boy, feigning
bravery.

“Thank you,” said the old tree.

“I have to go.”

“Of course you do.But you’ll remember, right?”

“Remember what?” asked the boy, puzzled and still very
much afraid, backing away slowly.

“You’ll remember the underside.You’ll remember the deep, dark, dank, and
hidden part.The part with worms and
grubs and fungus and secret members of the Underworld that relentlessly and
slowly chew and dissolve all living things.You’ll remember the decaying scent and the death and the webbing roots
that reach out to greedily grasp everything in sight, to devour and gorge.You’ll remember the stark ugliness and how
you wanted it and how you stared at it right in the face.You’ll remember the embrace,” said the dying
old tree.

“I don’t know what you mean,” the boy said, backing away
a bit further.He did not sound nearly
as convincing as he’d hoped he would.

“Yes, you do.Because
like attracts like.Things join with
other things that are similar.They congregate.They meld.You wanted the underside of me because your own dark underside is just
as cold and clawing and ugly. You are
dark and cruel.Have a good look,
boy.Come and cover me with kisses,” the
old tree laughed darkly.

With that, the boy took off running as fast as he
could!He was scared out of his
wits.It was getting dark fast.How long had he been staring at the dark
underside of that tree?It was actually
getting really dark now, but he kept running.Then he tripped and fell, cutting his head on a sharp old tree
stump.But he got up quickly and kept
running, fell and cut himself again, but got up yet again and kept going as
fast as he could.

At last he saw a small light coming from a window at the
old meeting house.He ran as fast as his
legs would carry him to the house, half frozen and half scared out of his
wits.He tore the door open and ran
inside, shocking everyone into silence.They all stared at him for a moment, and then his mother wailed and ran
to him, helping him out of his heavy and frozen outer clothing.She got a hot, wet cloth and cleaned the cuts
on his head while he sat in a chair silently.

The others, having realized the boy was fine, had begun
talking in groups again about the work that needed to be done.All except one.The bent and crooked old man sat in a dark
corner looking at the boy thoughtfully.The boy never looked up, but he knew the old man was watching.When his mother had finished cleaning his
cuts and had given him some tea, the old man slid over to boy’s side.

“So, how many trees are down?” he asked sharply.

“I don’t know.A lot.Many.It
was dark,” the boy said.

“Yes, it is dark.”

“It was very dark,” the boy whispered, now close to
tears.

“It comes on quickly, doesn’t it?”

“What??”

“The darkness.It
comes on quickly, doesn’t it?” the old man asked.

“Yes it does,” the boy said meekly.

“Be sure that you do not forget it.Next time you might not find the light of the
meeting house.”

The boy looked up at the old man.For once he was not arrogant or sullen or
rude.He was just a young boy in a cold
world, and the only thing that was keeping him from dying a tragic death in the
frozen outdoors was the tiny meeting house and the people and the warm fire
inside.He drank his tea gratefully as
he shivered by the fire, sitting closer than he should so that he almost burned
his shins, and the darkness receded just a bit as he stared into the
flames.

The bent and crooked old man went back to the corner and
sat hidden with his thoughts.

I am a freelance writer living in Maine, and I am the owner and author of the In Pursuit of Maine blog. I specialize in creative writing but also write historical articles as well as how to, gardening, cooking, practical articles, etc. My passion is outdoor living, farming, and gardening, but I write in many genres.

Tuesday, December 5, 2017

The days are cold and misty now.Grey.The
winds are harsh and unforgiving.They
blow the steely rain into the faces of those brave enough to go into the forest.
There are no birds singing, and the
insects have disappeared.The woods have
gone silent.Occasionally a crashing and
cracking sound is heard, signifying a deer somewhere close by.But he will not show himself.Sometimes it is a small rumbling sound, and
somewhere a squirrel rushes quickly past to put one more thing in his secret
stash.But he cannot be seen either.

It is a world of sound and feeling now, and sight is
useless.The Lady walks alone along the
shore and in the woods, seeking.Her nine
attendants are colorless and unseen, but there are ways to tell where they have
passed.There are no obvious signs, but
the ground is somehow gentler.A small
bouquet of forgotten colored leaves lies here and there.They are gifts from the good folk as they
follow Her.It is a long trail.

The Defender has yet to be born.But soon, very soon.Until then, She will tirelessly seek Him.The Lord of Winter watches Her, waiting for His
chance.Soon the wall of snow will come
and the land will be buried in thick ice and She will be trapped.All heads will bow in defeat then, as
ordained.She can leave no footprints, though,
and He will lose her track.The merciless
ice reveals no scent.The trail grows
cold, even for the King of Death.

I am a freelance writer living in Maine, and I am the owner and author of the In Pursuit of Maine blog. I specialize in creative writing but also write historical articles as well as how to, gardening, cooking, practical articles, etc. My passion is outdoor living, farming, and gardening, but I write in many genres.

Sunday, November 19, 2017

I am an oak, and that means I have time on my side.All of the other trees are grey and bare now,
but that is to be expected.If you live
fast and furiously, you die fast and furiously.Every year.But I take my time.In the spring, when everyone else is green
and bouncy, I stay bare.Crouched in the
forest like a panther, I bide my time.But I can do that because I am an oak, and I have time on my side.

Oak leaf.

How they flaunt themselves in the spring, those other
trees!Such foolishness.Each competes with the other.“Look at me!Look at me!”They sway this way
and that, painfully bursting forth in their enthusiasm, not caring about the
threatening grey clouds that circle far above.But me?I stay silent and
immobile, like a ghost on the attic stairs.I remain invisible because I know the choice is up to me.I have autonomy and integrity, but that is
because I am an oak.I do not expect
them to understand.

And then as they sweat their heady fragrance into the
forest (and while their backs are turned), I very silently awaken again.No one is looking because they are
self-absorbed in their own beauty (and admittedly, they are beautiful).Except perhaps an old woman here and
there.She will look knowingly into the
forest and say, “Ah, the oaks have returned.It is time to prepare the soil beds for planting.”But no one listens to an old woman or a mute old
oak tree.That is a good thing.It allows for quiet, uninterrupted intentions
to be sown.

Summer sees lushness and bounty for us all.There is much joyous talk in the forest,
often full of laughter and frivolity.I
enjoy the dulcet tones, but they sing is as if they think they will live
forever.Or perhaps they have forgotten
the dark sleep.It is just as well.I send my roots far, far down into the Earth,
much farther than my frivolous companions because they are too busy
chatting.Only I can pull up the rare
and vital minerals so necessary to lush growth.Only I can distribute them to the rest of the forest denizens through my
gift of leaves at the end.

At the end.It
comes so quickly.At first there is
joyous revelry and ballroom gowns of stunning color, and it seems as if the
band will play forever.But the winds
know differently.They usher in the grey
clouds, which have been silently waiting all this time, and then the screaming
and tearing and wailing begins.I close
my ears to it.When the last tear has
been shed and the ground is littered with shredded rags of once-magnificent
colors, I awake from a long nap.

All else is on its way to a monotone shade of grey.Except for me.I slowly shimmer into a red tone, and the
wind—try though it may—cannot take my leaves away.Those I shed at my own will in my own time,
and not a moment sooner.Nothing can be
taken from me without my permission.My
leaves are a gift I give to the others, but they do not know it because now
they are asleep.

Colorless, grey, and drab.Now it is their
turn to be the ghost.My strong,
unbreakable exterior looms in the forest now, and all others pale in
comparison.My arms reach outward
sideways instead of straight upward as the others do.All the animals instinctively know they can
find shelter under my boughs.While the
others creak and moan and crack in the howling frozen winds, I stand tall and
motionless.I am not afraid.

But that is because I am an oak.I am the King of the woods, and my dignity is
unquestioned and unparalleled.I will
stand here for 1,000 years, watching the others come and go, and come and go
again into the dust.I will reach deep
into the Earth for her hidden secrets, and I will pull power from the Sun in a
way no other tree can do.This is the
job of the King.It is a slow and
imperceptible task I must do, which task I agreed to in the very
beginning.It is long, slow work, but I
do not mind.It is the way of the oak,
and I have time on my side.

I am a freelance writer living in Maine, and I am the owner and author of the In Pursuit of Maine blog. I specialize in creative writing but also write historical articles as well as how to, gardening, cooking, practical articles, etc. My passion is outdoor living, farming, and gardening, but I write in many genres.

Wednesday, October 11, 2017

And now I knew who I was, and I laughed at the absurdity
of it all.How could I have
forgotten?All that time I had wasted,
believing that I was all alone in my journey, believing in the destination
instead of the process.

There we all were in the field, our eyes having been
opened at last.Like a painter who
stands before a blank canvas, we knew we had much work to do and anything was
possible.But we were not alone in this
journey.We had never been alone, and so
we were guided from within to reach our full potential.We could never have ended up anywhere but
where we were now.

Milkweed pods.

We used the liquid gold, knowing now with reverence its
true purpose.We joined our energies
together in a vortex, and instead of the liquid gold dissipating and spinning
away, it increased and funneled entirely through us.Each of us were a conduit, a channel for the
liquid gold, and we did not try to hold it within anymore.Indeed, it would not have been possible to do
so.No, now we let it flow abundantly
because we knew where it came from.

Off in the forest, dark creatures watched in seething
jealousy.We could not have known their
emptiness and anger, so rapt we were with the heavy job of creation.But they amassed on the border and
watched.At times the great King in the
heavens would reach His hand out quickly to snatch the dark creatures up, but
most of them disappeared into the coolness of the woods as soon as He
approached.Those He was able to take with
Him came not forth into the world again.

Many, many days passed, and I was blissfully busy.It was a long time before I looked up to find
Him again, and I was shocked at His appearance.He was suddenly tired and old and weak.What had happened to the great King?Now I was worried!We must help him, I thought, but I
remained as immobile as ever, locked in a green field.

And then I noticed the dark creatures along the edge of the
forest.Sometimes they would come boldly
out of hiding and stride into the field, and when they did, they would slay
some of my brethren and take them away.We stood there unable to stop the onslaught, prisoners in the daylight
with no chains or walls around us.I
knew it was just a matter of time before they eventually came for me as well.

One night, we all made a secret pact.We took most of our liquid gold and placed it
into tiny spiky purses, which we believed to be impenetrable.We knew instinctively these little purses
would be safe and so would the liquid gold within.Like feverish elves, we worked through that
night and the next several nights, funneling our liquid gold into the safe
little purses we had fashioned.

When at last we had finished our job, we looked up to a
dreadful sight.Most of the
green-ribboned brethren were sickly and suffering, bent over with exhaustion
and illness.Many were openly
grieving.The dark creatures from the
forest came into the field now during broad daylight, bold and arrogant!One by one, they took us prisoner and brought
us to a court they had fashioned from the skeletons of beings long since
passed.

Now it was my turn.They ripped and tore me from my place in the field.For so long, I had wanted to move and leave
that field, and now the only thing I wanted was to have my feet buried deeply and
safely in the field.But they had other
plans, and I was roughly torn away and brought to their deadly court.

I looked around wildly for the great King.Surely, He would help me??He was so strong and brave and mighty.Surely, He would destroy this terrible foe
and we could all go back to our warm and lovely field??And then I saw him.He was very old and weak and tired.He bent His head downward into the field, one
knee planted in the soft and cool Earth.He was not so large and all-encompassing as I had thought.He was exhausted, and His light was greatly
diminished.Even so, He was still
beautiful, and His face was serene and still happy.

As they dragged me, I managed to catch His eye, just for
a moment.He smiled warmly at me, and I
remembered the magnificent being who had put His hand under my chin so long ago
and sweetly said, “Rise up, little one.”Yes, He was still just as beautiful to behold now as He was then,
perhaps even more so because He seemed so tired and in need.I wanted to call to Him and ask for His help,
but I simply smiled at Him and nodded.He nodded back and then turned to the field again.

They dragged me to the cold court built from bones and
dead things that somehow looked and smelled familiar to me, and they put me on
trial for many crimes.They said I had
stolen the liquid gold, which rightfully belonged to them, and now I must pay
the price for my thievery.I tried to tell
them that the King had willingly given me the liquid gold, but they would hear
none of it.In fact, that only seemed to
enrage them more.I realized He had
never placed His hand under their chin and blessed them as He had me, and this
was why they hated me so much.

The trial was quick.They found me guilty as charged.The sentence was dismemberment.They placed me in a cell before carrying out the execution, and there I
sat, alone and terrified.After crying
incessantly for days, my tears suddenly dried up.Even if I had wanted to cry more, I knew
there was not one drop left.Suddenly, I
felt very lightheaded and dreamy.I knew
the end was near.

Then they came for me.They dragged me from the prison, and I willingly and easily went along
with them, almost floating in a dreamlike state.They loudly repeated my charges and
sentencing, but I barely listened to them.Somewhere I could hear the tiny bells of the dancer I knew so long ago,
whom I had completely forgotten about when I had stood tall and proud in my
field.Now the tiny sound of bells
rushed in, and I welcomed it.I could
not see her anywhere, but I knew she was there, and that was enough.

And now they carried out the sentence.I was shredded into a thousand pieces, and
all my tiny spiky purses fell to the ground.Somewhere very, very far off, a butterfly’s wings were beating away in
the sunshine of a field, and the tiny movement of air reverberated around the
world and gently blew all of my pieces into the wind.

I saw a blinding, searing Light.A terrible voice loudly demanded of me:“Who are you??”I laughed that it would even have to ask, and
I simply responded, “I AM.”This was the
Third Blasphemy of the seed, and I knew it as soon as I spoke it.I AM.And that could not be taken away from me.

I am a freelance writer living in Maine, and I am the owner and author of the In Pursuit of Maine blog. I specialize in creative writing but also write historical articles as well as how to, gardening, cooking, practical articles, etc. My passion is outdoor living, farming, and gardening, but I write in many genres.

Wednesday, September 20, 2017

The bounty continues . . . for now.Sometimes dinner pops up unexpectedly.These honey mushrooms weren’t here yesterday,
and I know that for a fact because I stood on this very spot.And yet here they are today.How does something grow so quickly?It’s a mystery to me.The growth is far greater than that of a
plant or an animal, but then we are not talking about a plant or an
animal.We are talking about a mushroom—a
whole different kingdom altogether.

Honey Mushroom.

There’s a dark side, of course.The honey mushroom is a tree killer.It grows on wood of either dead trees or
trees that are having a hard go of it and will soon be dead, thanks to a little
push.The honey mushroom is one of the
many creatures that helps a tree to become an “un-tree.”If there are honey mushrooms around, there
are dead trees around.You can be sure
of that.Really, it’s just their job.

This patch is destined for other things, though.You win some; you lose some.Today the honey mushrooms lost, and the tree
becomes a part of me.Tomorrow, it may
be me who loses.No one said the world
was a safe place.

I am a freelance writer living in Maine, and I am the owner and author of the In Pursuit of Maine blog. I specialize in creative writing but also write historical articles as well as how to, gardening, cooking, practical articles, etc. My passion is outdoor living, farming, and gardening, but I write in many genres.

Tuesday, September 19, 2017

Mushrooms grow almost all year long, but they are
especially prolific in the Fall.In fact,
that is how I often know that Fall is on its way:I smell the mushrooms.I smell them long before I see them.It is a deep, earthly, intoxicating kind of
scent, and once you inhale that aroma, you will never forget it.Ever.That
is how you know they have come.

Amanita muscaria - Yellow Fly Agaric.

They are sort of between the worlds, are they not?We cannot call them plants and we cannot call
them animals.They have their own
kingdom, and rightly so.For who does
not get that otherworldly feeling when looking at a mushroom?“You are in my territory now,” says the mushroom, “And you must follow my rules if you want to find your way
out of the woods.”And if the mushroom
be pretty, all the more entrancing.Unless
it is too pretty.That can be
dangerous.But they know that.

When the scent of mushrooms is everywhere in the air, I begin
scanning the ground and fallen trees because I know that soon they will poke
their heads up.They can be delicious or
deadly, an ally or a vicious foe.Some
are small and inconspicuous, and others are a foot in diameter, just daring you
to walk by without stopping.You cannot
do it, though.You have to stop and
look.But they know that, too.

They also know a lot about the Fall, much more than we
do.They know when the decay has begun,
and that is why they come.They might
tease with bright colors or pretty textures, but they are the harbingers of the
end.They are the bringers of summer’s
doom.

I am a freelance writer living in Maine, and I am the owner and author of the In Pursuit of Maine blog. I specialize in creative writing but also write historical articles as well as how to, gardening, cooking, practical articles, etc. My passion is outdoor living, farming, and gardening, but I write in many genres.

Monday, September 18, 2017

It’s getting to be that time.The farmers lay out their harvests and show
the bounty of the Earth yet again.I
never cease to be amazed at how lavish Mother Nature is.She’s never stingy.She never hoards anything.Instead, she always goes overboard and
creates in such magnificent abundance.There’s
so much that it can’t possibly all be used.Even rare specimens in the woods are still lavishly displayed and
abundant in their health.

Pumpkin abundance.

We live in a society where the idea of “lack” is taught
and, indeed, enforced to keep us all in line.Everywhere we go and in everything we do, there is always the feeling
that we must hurry to get our share because there isn’t enough to go around.“First come, first serve!Only while supplies last!”If we get something, we’re told we should
feel lucky and privileged.Not everyone
can get what we have because there’s not enough!Only a select few can have this.

But it’s all a lie.All of it.The Earth produces
massively just about everywhere if given half a chance.There’s work involved, yes—lots of it.But the reaping is much more than many people
who live in cities have been led to believe.The abundance is overwhelming, in fact.When you consider that you could grow a very good portion of your yearly
need for food on one-quarter an acre of land, you begin to see how generous the
Earth is and that you are not as beholden to someone else for your survival as
you thought you were.It opens up a
whole new world of possibility.

Let the Good Earth produce.De-program yourself from poverty
consciousness and open up to the abundance all around you, just waiting to be
plucked.If you sow, you will reap.

I am a freelance writer living in Maine, and I am the owner and author of the In Pursuit of Maine blog. I specialize in creative writing but also write historical articles as well as how to, gardening, cooking, practical articles, etc. My passion is outdoor living, farming, and gardening, but I write in many genres.

Thursday, August 31, 2017

It is no easy matter to become an “un-tree.”In fact, I would say that it’s a bit harder
to become an un-tree than it is to become a plain old tree in the first
place.I have been watching this tree as
it “un-trees” for several years now.

At first I wasn’t sure if it had decided to make the
change or not.Then spring rolled around
and no green leaves appeared, and then I knew that the decision had been
made.Still, the trunk and branches were
firm and hard and unyielding that spring and the spring after.It was solid and strong.But time marched on as it always does.

The un-tree in its un-becoming.

At first it was a bit of a color change, a sort of
greyness, even though the bark of many trees is often grey.But it was a different kind of grey, a pale
and ashen grey.There was no vitality
surrounding the tree.All living trees
give off a certain unseen vitality that is palpable when walking through the
woods.But the un-trees do not give off
this vitality anymore.

A few more years passed.The small twigs were the first to break off, then the small branches,
and then the larger branches.The un-tree
became a large trunk with just a few broken-off large branches at the top, sharpened
at the tips like spears.The resident
eagle liked to sit at the top because it gave such a clear and unobstructed
view of the surrounding territory.How strange
and foreboding his silhouette looked way up there on a cloudy day.The un-tree was still serviceable.

But with time, even those larger branches broke off, and
the trunk seemed to shrink in height.The
bark peeled off, first in small patches, and then large patches fell off.The long work of the insects had finally
become evident.The ravages of the many
winters had left their mark, like claws raking across a brittle surface.The rains swelled the inner body of the un-tree,
and the harsh sun dried it out and bleached it.Over and over, the un-tree became more un-treed.

Then today I noticed a breach in the substance of the un-tree.I put my eye right up to it and looked at the
woods beyond.Somehow, looking through
the hole of the un-tree was different than just moving aside and looking past
the un-tree at the woods beyond it.I tried
it several times, and I am certain that the view through the un-tree was different than the view to the side of the un-tree.

Withering little fibers hang from the hole and try to
tell their story about the day they grew so strong and bright and tall.But no one is listening.The eagle has long since flown away and found
a better perch.Even the insects have
abandoned it for a better deal.

Now all that is left is the view through the un-tree, and soon that will be gone, too.The fibers will fall off and break down, and
bit by bit each piece will dissolve and blow off into the wind as if it had
never been.Its substance will nourish
creatures we cannot see, and the hidden view will disappear.

Like the old trick with the glass of water and the sugar—you’ve
heard of it, no?Take a clear glass of
clean water.Slowly add sugar to it,
stirring with a spoon after each addition.Let each addition dissolve completely and look into the clean and clear
water.Eventually, it will reach a
saturation point where no more sugar can be dissolved, and as you look at the
slowly swirling water at the top of the glass, suddenly crystals of sugar will
materialize, seemingly out of nowhere, and swirl around and around in a vortex.Out of nothing, something.

What dissolves in one world reappears in another
world.The un-tree may appear to be at
the end of its journey, but somewhere else the journey has just begun.Sometimes it is hard to know whether you are
at the dissolving end of your journey or the appearing end of it.When all is said and done, I suspect it does
not really matter which is which.The view
through the un-tree remains.

I am a freelance writer living in Maine, and I am the owner and author of the In Pursuit of Maine blog. I specialize in creative writing but also write historical articles as well as how to, gardening, cooking, practical articles, etc. My passion is outdoor living, farming, and gardening, but I write in many genres.